


Hold On

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, First Time, Let Spencer Reid Be Happy 2020, Non-Explicit Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26608942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: The tangible physical evidence of life under his hands feels like a minor miracle. He knows how fragile it is; he knows how easily this could be ripped away from him, how easy it would’ve been for things to go differently, for her heart to stop before he ever got to feel her pulse.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	Hold On

**Author's Note:**

> Title, thematic inspiration, and quoted lyric from "Hold On," by Tom Waits.

**Fo** r a long time, Spencer didn’t understand other peoples’ need to _touch_. He avoided it whenever possible. 

It was partly about germs, of course, but partly just that he didn’t like the sensation. He’s never liked the intimacy of it, the closeness, and even as a child, unexpected hugs made him go stiff and uncomfortable, like he was holding his breath until the foreign stimulus was gone. 

There were a few people he made an exception for, people he trusted, people whose arms made him feel protected or comforted instead of threatened, but it was only a handful: his mom, Morgan, JJ, occasionally Penelope or Emily. 

He’d see couples walking down the street hand in hand, or with their arms wrapped around each other, and he wondered what the appeal was. He imagined sleeping next to someone, waking up with their body wrapped around his, their skin sweaty and their breath damp, and he imagined it would feel more like a stranglehold than an embrace. 

Then there was Maeve. 

He wanted to meet her in person, of course, but it wasn’t her physical body that he fell in love with. It was almost a relief, being able to have a relationship without worrying about the sensory minefield of having another human in his space. 

When he daydreamed about meeting her (and he daydreamed a lot) he mostly tried to imagine her face. He knew what it _sounded_ like when she was smiling or laughing, but he wanted to _see_ ; he wanted to watch the way she lit up when they had those long joyful arguments about poetry. He wanted to learn her mannerisms, her expressions, wanted to learn her until he could read her like a book. 

He rarely thought about touching her, but then Maeve died, and suddenly he couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it. 

He’d never been able to hold her hand. He wondered what her fingers had looked like, how they’d fit with his own, whether her palms were rough with callouses or soft and smooth, whether she bit her nails. 

He’d never been able to kiss her, and he wondered how her lips would feel. Would their first kiss have been shy and sweet, or deep and passionate? Who would initiate it? Would they be in the middle of a conversation when he decided he couldn’t wait, or would she take the lead? 

He’d never slept next to her, never felt her breathing slow in the dark, never held her. He’d never run his fingers through her hair, or wiped away her tears, or danced with her. 

He missed her. 

He could remember her laugh, her voice, the barely-there crackle of her breath over the line when she paused to think. He held tight to those memories. He never wanted to let them go. 

It shouldn’t have been possible, but he missed her body, too. His skin felt strange and bare for the longest time, every inch of him feeling the _lack_ of her. Every nerve and cell felt the ghost of her imagined touch. He dreamed about it all the time, dreamed that she was there, arms wrapped around him, body pressed close to his. 

He dreamed about trying to hold on: feeling her slip away, the way his throat went tight with panic… gunshots. Those dreams always ended in a gunshot, and when he woke up, he was terrified and crying out for her, reaching out in the dark, feeling only emptiness where she should’ve been. 

He just wants to apologize, and to say goodbye. He wishes he’d had a chance to hold her, just once. 

It never really stops hurting. Spencer knows he'll be hearing that gunshot in his dreams for the rest of his life, and he knows he’ll never get a chance to say goodbye. He knows he’ll never get a chance to touch her. Spencer meets someone new, one Sunday morning, in his favorite coffee shop. She’s curled up in an armchair, reading a book, and he’s so distracted by the way she’s smiling as her eyes whiz across the page that he trips over his feet and spills his fresh mug of coffee on her. He stammers an apology, painfully embarrassed. He grabs a handful of napkins and offers them to her, but all he can do is stand there uselessly as she dabs at the stain. 

She’s humming something. It takes a second for Spencer to place it. 

“Tom Waits,” he blurts out, and she looks up at him, grinning. 

“Go ahead and call the cops…” she sings quietly. 

“You don’t meet nice girls in coffee shops,” he finishes. “Tom Waits doesn’t know what he’s talking about, apparently.” 

She laughs. “Depends on your definition of nice, I guess.” 

“Can I take you out to dinner sometime?” he asks, almost choking on the words. She says yes, for some reason. 

At the end of their first date, he walks her to her door and _panics_. He doesn’t know how to bridge the gap between their bodies, and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and he’s utterly captivated by her. It’s been so long since he wanted to reach out and touch someone. 

So he steps back and raises a hand in a wave. She smiles like she understands, but he kicks himself as soon as the door closes behind her. 

That night, he dreams about the goodbye. He dreams about walking her to her building, watching her step inside, but this time when the door closes behind her, he hears a gunshot. He wakes up gasping, terrified that he’ll never get to kiss her goodnight. 

He calls her, first thing in the morning, and asks for a second chance. 

On their second date, he takes her to lunch. He watches her hands as she fidgets, and his fingers itch with the desire to reach out. He watches her lick a drop of water from her lip, and he gets lost, imagining what it would be like to kiss her. 

After lunch, they go to his favorite used bookstore. It's a labyrinth of a place, with low ceilings and three floors and five old spiral staircases. It feels like you could find _anything_ around the next corner, like the air is thick with magic under the smell of aging paper and ink, and there's something about it that makes Spencer feel like a child again. He leads her up the hidden back staircase, ducking to make it under the lintel, and when she looks around the mazelike loft, her face lights up with childlike joy that mirrors his own. He grabs her hand, then. 

It's the first time they've touched. Her palm feels tiny in his. "Which way?" he asks, and she looks around, bright eyed, weighing the options. She pulls him through a narrow aisle, past the autobiographies, her eyes alight and her lips curled in a smile, her fingers still laced with his. They're in the travel section when he stops short, tugging on her hand to reel her in. He kisses her before he can think too hard. It’s breathless, clumsy, eager, both of them smiling, and it's _perfect_. She’s solid and warm against him. He slides one hand up to her neck, running his fingers through her hair, and then cups her jaw. The pad of his thumb rests right against her heartbeat where it kicks steadily under the thin skin. He kisses her again. 

The tangible physical evidence of life under his hands feels like a minor miracle. He knows how fragile it is; he knows how easily this could be ripped away from him, how easy it would’ve been for things to go differently, for her heart to stop before he ever got to feel her pulse. 

He holds her hand as he walks her back to her building that afternoon. His hand is slightly sweaty, but she doesn’t seem to mind. He holds on tight, fascinated by the way their fingers slot together and the way he can feel the tiny knobby bones of her knuckles when he brushes his thumb over them. He kisses her outside her apartment and he smiles all the way home. 

The first time he undresses her, he takes his time. He touches every new inch of skin, reverent, presses his lips to every scar and freckle, until she’s flushed, flustered by the attention. 

“What?” she asks, as he stares. 

“You’re incredible,” he mumbles, because she _is_. Spencer is fascinated by the soft give of her stomach, the rise and fall of her chest, the shifting muscles of her thighs and the lines of tendons in her neck when she arches her back. There’s so much happening under her skin: red blood cells ferrying oxygen as she gasps in a breath, nerve endings firing off wherever he touches her, infinitesimal electric pulses rushing off to her brain to translate the pressure of his fingers into pleasure. 

It’s not just heat and friction. It’s _life_. She’s warm and breathing and so very alive under his palms, and every sensation is a celebration. 

Spencer falls hard and fast. She _fits_ in his messy little world, slots neatly into spaces that he never realized were empty, filling his life with her warm laugh. It’s easier than he expected, letting her in. 

They have their first fight in Spencer’s kitchen on a Saturday afternoon. Spencer’s not sure what it’s about, afterward. It’s a blur. 

He gets passive-aggressive instead of dealing with things, and she says something sharp in return. Anger rises hot and corrosive in his throat, strangling everything else. He can’t swallow it down so he spits it out instead, snarling something hurtful, and he _knows_ it’s petty, he _knows_ it’s childlike to lash out, but it’s what he does. It’s what he always does. 

Spencer never really learned how to have an argument that doesn’t end with someone storming out the door. 

“You should go,” he snaps. Her eyes are big and hurt, and Spencer turns his back. 

“Spencer.” 

“I _said_ , you should _go_.” 

There’s a long pause. He hears her grab her purse from the table and head for the door without another word. 

Spencer goes cold all over, because she’s about to walk out before he can say goodbye, and suddenly he’s terrified. He’s _terrified_ , and it feels like he’s choking. The dull thud of the deadbolt sliding open sounds like a gunshot. 

She’s already halfway out the door when he says, “Wait.” 

He moves quickly, slamming the door shut and wrapping his arms around her, clinging tight. She slides her hands up his back and fists them in his shirt, pulling him closer. Spencer squeezes his eyes closed and feels the tears spill over. 

Anger is a waste of time. Why does he _do_ that? 

“It’s okay,” she whispers, before he can even apologize. 

“Please don’t go,” he says, in a small strained voice. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I — sorry.” 

She takes a big shuddery breath and he realizes she’s crying too. He presses his lips to her temple and wipes her tears away with the pad of his thumb, and he has to bite back the words, because he knows it’s not the right moment, but all he can think is, _I love you_. 

A couple days later, they’re in his kitchen again, making dinner, and the light is golden where it comes through the window. She’s smiling. He takes the vegetable peeler out of her hand, sets it down on the counter, and tugs her away. 

“Dance with me?” he asks. She doesn’t question it. She slips her hand into his and sways slowly with him in the quiet kitchen, and he tells her: “I love you.”

He still dreams about Maeve sometimes. 

He’s stumbling through a strange unfamiliar house, opening doors and finding one empty echoing room after another, and he can’t find her. He’s so fucking scared he can’t breathe, and he’s choking on it, throat closed up tight. 

Last door. He can’t open it, he’s trying, but the handle is stuck, and then — 

He wakes at the gunshot, wakes with a sob in the back of his throat, reaching out into empty space. 

Except it’s not empty. She’s already there, right there in his arms, sprawled half on top of him with her sweaty skin plastered to his. 

“You okay?” she asks, voice slurred with sleep. 

“I will be,” he whispers. She’s already falling back to sleep, but he says it anyway: “I’m glad you’re here.” 

He still sort of feels like he’s choking. Love feels a lot like fear, sometimes. 

It’s more like a stranglehold than an embrace, but he holds her close and listens to the steady rush of oxygen in her lungs. She shifts, digging a knee into his thigh. He’s getting pins and needles in one arm, and her breath is hot and damp on the side of his neck, tickling his skin with every exhale. Spencer is overheated and uncomfortable. He doesn’t move. 

There are billions of people in this world and trillions of cells in her body, and there are countless tiny miracles that led them to this moment: tangled in the sheets, breathing slowly in the darkness, together, _alive_. 

Spencer understands, now. He never, ever wants to stop touching her. 


End file.
